“I would.”
The waiter poured. I tasted it, Zorch watching me anxiously.
“Excellent,” I declared. And it was excellent—for removing the shellac from a nightstand.
Pleased, Zorch sent the waiter off for two more bottles of it.
An agent seized the moment to swoop in on Schlom. “Did you get a chance to read it, Norb?”
“Pass,” growled Schlom, staring straight ahead.
“You read it?” he pressed.
“Don’t have to,” Schlom replied. “Pasadena.”
“But it’s a slam-dunk script, Norb,” the agent protested. “If you’d only take a look at it.”
Schlom pulled a Bottega Veneta leather-bound notepad from the inner pocket of his jacket and tore off a sheet of crisp, white notepaper. He rolled this between his thumb and forefinger until it was a ball, then stuck it in his mouth. Norbert Schlom ate paper. It was what he did instead of chewing gum or smoking. “I been making movies for thirty years,” he argued, chewing on the paper until he swallowed it. “I don’t have to read a script to know whether or not I want to do it.” He waved his hand to indicate the subject was closed. The agent fled.
Zorch smiled at me apologetically. “Have you heard the latest agent joke? Two agents are walking down the street and they pass a gorgeous woman, and one says to the other, ‘How would you like to fuck her?’ And the other says, ‘Out of what?’ ”
I’ve never been an easy laugh. Geoffrey with a G didn’t laugh either, since that would have involved making a sound. Nor did Schlom. I doubt he’d laughed in thirty years, and then only when he was working somebody over. Toy laughed. She was amused, and in no way offended by the coarseness. Toy was, after all, a former call girl—one of three women currently married to film studio bosses who could make such a claim. The happy couples were quite open about this. In fact the husbands, all of them older men on their second marriages, were proud of it, as if being married to an ex-pro served as testimony to their sexual prowess. All three wives were poised, attractive, gracious, and well known for their excellent parties and their tireless good works on the charity circuit. One already had a society ball named after her, and there was even talk of a telethon.
“You can’t get through a meal here without at least ten agents stopping by to talk business,” Zorch complained airily. “But if you don’t eat here then you go crazy wondering what you might be missing out on.”
“And we can’t have that,” I said. “Can we?”
“We can’t indeed,” Zorch said with utmost conviction. “This is where the game is played—the principal players are all here.” He looked around the room at them with greedy fascination. “There are three types of movie people, Mr. Hoag. Players, nonplayers, and nonentities. Which type are you?”
“I prefer to think of myself as a conscientious objector.”
Toy laughed again. “I believe I like this man already.”
“Well, well, you’ve made yourself a fan, Mr. Hoag,” Zorch observed happily.
“My wife creams for clever,” growled Schlom.
I raised my glass to her and she and I drank to clever, her exotic violet eyes locking onto mine and lingering a moment. Her husband watched the two of us balefully. Possibly the lady got out nights. Clever was not a commodity she was likely to find in abundance chez Schlom.
Zorch requested, and was granted, liberty to order our first course for us, an assortment of pizzas covered with things like lamb sausage, goat cheese, and smoked salmon. Then an invisible signal passed—Toy suddenly had something she desperately needed to say to Diandra Douglas and Geoffrey with a G was suddenly out of cigarettes. I was now alone at the table with the two amigos. Lulu stayed put under me. The promise of smoked salmon pizza was enough to keep her there for a long while.
Zorch reached under his chair and produced a slender black leather briefcase. Inside was a manila envelope. He handed it across the table to me. I took it. Schlom watched me. Inside was a stock certificate made out for a thousand shares of Panorama City Communications. In my name.
“For your information, Panorama City closed at sixty-five and a quarter today,” Zorch said, lighting a cigarette. “And will go up dramatically when the merger with Murakami goes through in the coming weeks. Way up. Way more than you’re paying for it.”
“And how am I paying for it?” I asked, returning it to the envelope. Schlom watched that, too. Schlom watched everything.
“With your cooperation,” Zorch replied.
“I am very cooperative,” I said. “Ask anyone.”
Schlom ripped another piece of paper off of his little pad and chewed on it. I watched him, wondering how many trees he’d eaten in his lifetime, and what it had done to his digestion.
Zorch took a sip of his awful wine. “We’re in the midst of a multibillion-dollar international merger, Mr. Hoag. That’s big stuff. Bigger than the three of us at this table. Bigger than Matthew Wax and Pennyroyal Brim and their marital hassles. Big. Our absolute, number one priority is to make certain that this deal goes through. Nothing must get in the way of that. Absolutely nothing. Can you understand me so far?”
“I can. I can also count to ten and tie my own shoes.”
Zorch’s tongue darted out of his mouth, then retreated just as quickly. That was another reason why they called him the Iguana. He smiled faintly. “These sleazy House of Wax headlines, this ugly publicity about their battle over who gets little Georgie and who gets Bedford Falls—”
“Most of which is coming from you,” I pointed out.
“It scares the Murakami people,” Zorch continued, deftly slipping my jab. “It shouldn’t. It has nothing to do with them directly. But they’re extremely sensitive about bad press. They don’t wish to find themselves caught in that whole Japan-bashing thing that happened over Rockefeller Center and Yosemite. These are low-profile people. They dislike the way all of this is heating up.”
“Because you’re heating it up,” I pointed out.
Schlom glowered at me.
Zorch puffed calmly on his cigarette, refusing to be baited. “And now they’re—”
“They’re leaning on you,” I broke in. “They don’t like your gutter tactics. They don’t like any of it. They may even pull out of the whole deal.”
Zorch smiled at me. “Then you do understand me.
“I understand you perfectly,” I said. “I just don’t like you.”
A low, menacing rumble came from Schlom’s throat. Zorch cautioned him with a quick shake of his head, then turned back to me, still smiling. The tongue darted in and out. “We’d like you to help us quiet it down, Mr. Hoag. We’re anxious to see things proceed with dignity from here on in.”
“It’s a little late for that, don’t you think?”
“It’s never too late for a little well-targeted spin control,” he suggested, glancing at the envelope.
I handed it back to him across the table. “I only work for one employer at a time, thanks.”
The two of them exchanged an unhappy look.
“Perhaps you’d like to think it over,” Zorch offered.
“I would not. No perhaps about it.”
“I’m very serious about this, Mr. Hoag.” There was a well-oiled edge to his voice now. “I mean business.”
“If you do, then why are you wearing that tie?”
“Aw, Christ,” growled Schlom. “We’re getting nowhere with this coconut. Look, Hoag, my wife, she likes clever. I don’t. I like meat and potatoes. Know what I’m talking about?”
“So far, you’re talking about meat and potatoes.”
“We want you protecting our interests,” he raged, stabbing the table with a stubby index finger. “You don’t want stock, fine. Tell us what you do want. Cash? A development deal? Just say it plain. And let’s get it done with.”
I tugged at my ear. “Okay—leave Bedford Falls alone.”
“Impossible,” grunted Schlom. “Never happen.”
“Why not? Why ca
n’t you let Shelley Selden find another buyer for Pennyroyal’s half of the studio—if she gets it.”
“She’ll get it,” Zorch promised me. “That’s a lock.”
“We gotta have Bedford Falls,” Schlom explained. “We got this Dennis the Dinosaur prehistoric planet attraction on the drawing boards for our studio tour. It’s gonna be huge, and Murakami is very excited about it. Only, it means tearing out a half-dozen more soundstages. We need their soundstages.”
“There are other soundstages around town.”
“Bedford Falls is part of the deal,” Schlom insisted, sticking out his thick, wet underlip. “I already made a verbal commitment to deliver it.”
“So your ass is in something of a sling.”
“We’re not here to talk about my ass.”
“Okay, then let’s talk about Matthew’s book. What don’t you want him saying in it?”
Schlom frowned. “I don’t follow you.”
“I’m here to deliver a book. And you seem very anxious to buy my cooperation. That generally means silent approval of the manuscript. What don’t you want him talking about? Is it the Three Stooges episode?”
“Whatta you know about that?” Schlom’s face turned purple.
“Enough to know I wouldn’t want it made public if I were you.”
“Damned right I don’t!” he roared, pounding the table with his heavy fist. Heads turned at neighboring tables. “And don’t you try to do it, you skinny, wise-ass New York pencil head!”
“I use a Waterman exclusively.”
Zorch tried to step in. “Come on now, Norb. Let’s not—”
“Don’t fuck with me, Hoag!” Schlom spat, ignoring him. “I’ll break you! Hear me? I’ll break you!”
“You’re too late. I’m already broken.”
He called me a few more cuddly names, then drained his wine in a gulp and slammed down his glass. We sat there in charged silence.
“You interest me, Mr. Hoag,” Zorch remarked, a mischievous glint in his eye.
“Why?”
“You obviously don’t care what anyone else thinks of you. That makes you unpredictable. And potentially dangerous. Are you?”
A waiter appeared at my elbow. “More wine, sir?”
“If you insist,” I said.
The waiter didn’t pour. Just stood there, cackling. I finally looked up at him. I didn’t have to crane my neck very far. It was Joey Bam Bam, rocking back and forth on his heels like a hobbyhorse with a perm.
“I thought you were going to stop following me, Bam Bam,” I said.
“I did stop following you,” he said, grinning at me. “You’re following me.”
“My mistake.”
“Romola is dying to meet you,” he said, indicating a table across the room where four other miniagents in dark suits sat with the latest in a never-ending series of six-feet-tall, ninety-pound teenagers with silicone breasts and collagen lips. “Great bunch of guys for you to meet, too. Come on over and say hello.”
“We’re discussing business right now.”
“Sure, sure. Sorry to interrupt.” He lingered there next to me, begging with his eyes like a hungry stray.
I sighed inwardly. “Joseph Bamber of the Harmon Wright Agency, say hello to Abel Zorch and Norbert Schlom.”
He shook their hands, beaming. “Mr. Zorch—a pleasure. Mr. Schlom—an ultrathrill, sir. I happen to represent Johnny Forget.”
“Oh, yeah?” said Schlom, his jaw working on a piece of paper. “How’d you get stuck with that little fuckhead?”
“I’ll be in touch with you, sir, if you don’t mind. I have a number of exciting ideas to discuss. Are you a fan of Romola? She happens to be—”
“Disappear,” commanded Schlom.
“Yessir.”
And he did.
Our pizzas arrived. Toy Schlom and Geoffrey with a G returned with them. We made small talk about the heat wave while we ate, Toy eating with great appetite and pleasure. She swallowed nothing. Each time she finished chewing a mouthful of food she raised her napkin to her mouth and coughed discreetly into it. That season’s newest diet. Several other women at Spago, including Romola, were also spitting their designer cuisine into their napkins.
We were discussing our main course selection—Lulu and I were leaning toward the grilled tuna—when Pennyroyal Brim and Trace Washburn walked in. That’s the wonderful thing about Spago. You just never know who you’ll run into there.
Trace led the way, moving through the room with the self-assured ease of someone who was used to being a star. He limped slightly. Four years of calling the signals at USC followed by ten more of stunt work will leave you slightly battered. But even at fifty he was still very much the Malibu beach boy he’d always been—tall and rangy and narrow-waisted, his shaggy blond hair only slightly tinged with gray, his chiseled face weathered by the sun and handsome as ever. He grinned easily. A big, sleepy grin, his deep-set eyes twinkling roguishly. He wore an old denim shirt, faded jeans with patches on them, and elkskin cowboy boots. He carried his bottle of beer loosely by the neck, and was somewhat drunk.
America’s sweetie pie trailed after him, done up like the world’s cutest little business executive in a double-breasted gray pin-striped pantsuit with padded shoulders, peaked lapels, and no blouse—no nothing—under it. A very sexy look. Pennyroyal Brim happened to be very sexy. She was about five feet five, slim and curvy, and she knew how to move. True, there were probably three or four women around town who had nicer bodies. But there were none who had her face. There weren’t faces like hers anywhere. She had the clear, porcelain blue eyes of a baby—sweet, innocent, and trusting. Her nose was a little girl’s snub, her mouth a pink, perfect rosebud, her complexion so flawless it glowed. She wore her long, golden hair parted down the middle and brushed loose. She had on no makeup of any kind. None was needed. The woman already sparkled, especially when she smiled. It wasn’t because of her famous dimples. It wasn’t because of her shiny white teeth. It was her. She was the girl-next-door of every man’s dreams. Young and clean and oh, so sweet. She was pure magic.
“Pretty Penny, dear child,” Zorch called out to her. “Come join us.”
She stiffened at the sound of her attorney’s voice, then murmured something to Trace, steeled herself, and marched over, Trace now tagging along.
“I’m glad you’re here, Abel,” she said, in that unexpectedly deep, hoarse voice of hers. “We have to—”
“We were just about to order, dear,” he said brightly. “Sit and eat with us.” Our table seated six—there was one empty chair. “I’ll have Bernard bring us over another chair.”
“Don’t bother,” muttered Schlom, glaring up at Trace with his yellow rat’s eyes. “We’re fine just like we are.” Clearly, the actor was not welcome at either Norbert Schlom’s studio or his dinner table. I wondered why.
In response, Trace launched into his heavy breathing thing. “Well, shit, Norb …” he panted. Trace Washburn was a distinguished graduate of what Merilee called the Clu Gulager School of Acting, in honor of the fifties TV Western performer who patented the heavy breathing technique. First take a deep breath. Then pause. Then speak on the exhale. Result: you always sound as if you’ve just ridden in off the dusty trail, parched and weary. Other noted alumni included Kris Kristofferson and Gary Busey. I can’t tell you if they did it even when the cameras weren’t rolling. Trace did. “You almost make a …” Pant, pant. “Make a guy feel … unwelcome.”
Schlom refused to look at him. Just stared straight ahead. Toy sipped her wine, coloring slightly.
Trace took a swig of his beer, then squinted at me. “I know you, Buck?”
“I don’t believe so.”
Zorch made the introductions. Trace’s hand was leathery and strong. I got no handshake from Pennyroyal, or smile. Just a grim nod.
“Abel, we have to talk,” she said urgently.
“Of course, dear. Have a seat.”
She shot a nervous glance up at Tra
ce.
He held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Hey, darlin’ … don’t mind me. I’ll do some … mingling.” He looked around, caught sight of Romola seated with the young guns of HWA. “Down, Big Steve!” he exclaimed to his nether region. “Whoa, boy! Down, Steve!” Cassandra wasn’t exaggerating—he definitely talked to it. Grinning, he started off in Romola’s direction.
“Trace?” said Pennyroyal, stopping him with a hand on his arm. “Behave yourself, okay?”
He took her small hand in his and kissed it affectionately. “I always behave, darlin’. Always.” And off he limped.
She sat, reached for one of Zorch’s cigarettes, and lit it. “Look, Abel, this sucks,” she said, pulling on it tensely. Her hands were shaking.
“What does, dear?” asked Zorch mildly.
“I have fifty photographers parked outside my house day and night, climbing my fence, following me everywhere I go, calling me a whore, lying about me.”
Zorch shrugged. “If you’re mediocre, people will leave you alone your whole life.”
“And where did this ‘best sex I ever had’ shit come from?” she demanded. “I never said it. Any of it!”
“I honestly don’t know, dear,” he replied with oily sincerity. It was a wonder the man didn’t slide right off his chair onto the floor.
“Abel, I can’t stand this anymore!” There was desperation in her voice. The lady was stressed out, no question. “You’re turning me into Madonna!”
“I’m turning you?” he responded coldly. “You’re a big girl now, Penny. Too big to play blame games. I am merely your legal advisor. I work for you. If you wish for this to stop, then say so.”
“I want it to stop,” she declared. “I want it to stop now!”
“As it happens,” Zorch said graciously, “Norb and I were just discussing that very notion with Mr. Hoag.”
“Unsuccessfully,” I pointed out.
She shot a quick look over at Trace, who was busy hitting on Romola with the easy confidence of a Hall of Fame slugger. Then she turned to me. “You’re the one who’s working for Matthew?”
The Boy Who Never Grew Up Page 11